


A Terrible Sort of Yearning

by 9_of_Clubs



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Bittersweet, Loneliness, M/M, Separations, missing each other, phonecalls, star crossed lovers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-17
Updated: 2014-05-17
Packaged: 2018-01-25 11:33:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 885
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1647182
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/9_of_Clubs/pseuds/9_of_Clubs
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post Season Finale Speculation, Hannibal has run away to avoid capture, and Will is trying to hold all the pieces together, but misses him despite himself, and then the phone rings...</p><p>--</p><p>"And the number is unlisted, just some advertiser, he tries to tell himself as his fingers reach for the phone nonetheless, the subconscious part of himself hoping for something he shouldn’t hope for...every time the shrill trill of his phone’s rings cut into the air."</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Terrible Sort of Yearning

He’s sitting on his bed, eyes shutting in near exhaustion when the phone rings. It’s been a long day, sitting with Jack in the hospital, so near to recovery, thankfully, passing Alana silently in the hall, the constant need of his stomach to twist itself in five hundred different ways...the last thing he wants is to pick up a phone call, to have to open his mouth and speak to someone when that sounds like the hardest thing in the world. And the number is unlisted, just some advertiser, he tries to tell himself as his fingers reach for the phone nonetheless, the subconscious part of himself hoping for something he shouldn’t hope for, every time the shrill trill of his phone’s rings cut into the air.

He stares at it for one moment longer then accepts the call, brings it to his ear. Only silence greets the other end. He sighs into it, waiting for some unknown reason, another heartbeat and he’s spoken. 

“Hello?” He murmurs into the phone, shifting to sit up, the quiet in the air around him thrums deafeningly in his ears. “Hello?” He says again, waiting. 

He can make out faint sounds streaming in through the other end now, nothing discernible, the rush of wind or roar of water, but clearly another on the line, ad agency all but ruled out. He scrunches his face, tries to keep the waver out of his voice. “We’re not fourteen, Hannibal. You can’t just call and decide you’re too cowardly to say anything, you can’t -”

His would be tirade is cut off by the low, accented, words that come back to him, his fingers clutching the phone too tight now, body bent over it, as the metaphorical punch to his gut steals all his air. “I miss you, Will.” And so much for not being fourteen, is the first coherent thought his brain can string together, and he thinks he says it because Hannibal’s chuckle sounds, tinged with something sad and hurting, ugly like the way Will feels when he catches himself thinking too much in the empty hours of his day.

“Well.” He manages when he can speak again. “Without each other we’re alone, I told you that, Doctor Lecter.” He’s clutching the phone like a lifeline now, like he’s drowning, a terrible sort of yearning filling him despite himself. Hannibal creeps into his mind too often, more than he should allow, more than is healthy, he’s sure. He thinks he sees him in the crowds, out of the corners of his eye, more than once, he’s found his car halfway to Baltimore before he remembers there’s no one for him there anymore. 

“Yes.” Hannibal murmurs back. “Yes, astute as always. And yet -”He can hear the echo of a sigh, can imagine the defeated slump in broad shoulders. “The reality always makes itself known more horrible than the fantasy. I had imagined myself surviving your absence, perhaps, pushing past it, but here I find the thought now to be incomprehensible.”

“You could come back.” Will tries not to make it sound like a plea, but he thinks his own longing creeps into it. 

“Or you could come here.” Hannibal counters, all gentle affection, as though they are both speaking of hopeless dreams, there’s something a shade thicker to it. 

Will’s eyes shut and his lips twist into a smile, he thinks there are tears streaming down his cheek, but it’s hard to be sure, because only Hannibal exists for him in this moment, and his body screams for him to go, to just forget everything, get up, find him, end this torment for them both.

“I miss you too.” He says instead and defeats the fantasy, the woeful ache of its absence crushing into him, a tired numbness spreading out. 

Hannibal is quiet for a long time after that, but Will can feel his presence enough to know he’s not gone. When he speaks again, he’s dealt with something internally for the moment, and his voice sounds familiar in its warm casual tone. “Then I shall call and we will speak.” 

Will almost laughs at that, because he’s be chasing Hannibal and Hannibal will be running, but they’re going to have nightly conversations on the phone as though they’re separated lovers. He doesn’t have it in him to disagree. 

His silence is taken for its meaning, because Hannibal speaks again, calmly moves the conversation to different waters. “Tell me Will, how are the dogs…”

\--

Hanging up, hours later, the night dark around him, in true, teenagerly, fashion, seems almost untenable, but he gets the sense Hannibal simply won’t if he doesn’t, and the tendrils of sleep suffocating his mind are starting to get unbearable. He can barely make out the words anymore, the one’s being said to him or the one’s he’s saying. 

“I need to sleep.” He murmurs into the phone, his eyes already shut, his head on the pillow. 

“Then sleep.” Hannibal replies softly from very far away, the strands of his music filtering through their connection. Will nods in the direction of the phone, but can’t seem to find the energy to lift his arm. In the end, he drifts off, his ears full of some sonata or another, the phantom press of lips to his cheek.


End file.
